A while back I began writing fiction again and, against my misgivings, began to publish rough drafts in a serial fashion. I had made more progress than was accomplished in over a year, but now I find myself mired down. The events and most of the scenes are in my head, but actually writing them out has become a chore. Slogging through it is like swimming in quicksand; try as I might, there has been no progress for weeks. Even my regular blog posts have suffered. Perhaps it is only fatigue, or the sudden change in my routine now that I have returned to work. The reasons are just as elusive as the words I attempt to uncover.
Writing has been a catharsis for me since high school. The urge to create entire realities whole cloth is appealing, particularly as an escape. I have always been a daydreamer and that provided an outlet to cope with a life that has always baffled me. I am often, to this day, ill prepared for interacting with the real world. Although it isn’t an overriding factor in my thoughts, it maddeningly remains. This isn’t to say that these imaginings are always pleasant, because without strife there is no growth.
I cannot even think my way through to the end of this post. I thought it was apparent, but the thread has gone. Thanks for stopping by and take care of you.